Operation: Recovery
by IronSparrow99
Summary: "I can't leave you three alone, can I?" "...what do you mean, you lost Clint?" "...Dad, put Bucky on the phone, please. He's a coherent drunk." / Or: Why Vegas is Never a Good Idea (Especially if you're with Tony Stark).
1. Chapter 1

**Hi there! This is gonna be a short story, less than ten chapters, to bridge the gap between one-shots. Oh, and also to give you all a little humor after the angst-bucket that was** _ **Dissension.**_

 **(I'm still not sorry.)**

 **Also, this is probably the suckiest first chapter I've ever written, but you should've see the first version.**

* * *

I duck the foot aimed at my head, reaching up and lifting it in hopes of getting my opponent off balance. They're expecting this, though, so they yank their foot downward, forcing me to let go or risk hitting the floor.

They swing a punch at my face, and I meet it with an arm lock, getting both of us into a tangled mess.

The other person goes still for a moment before using their other arm to grab my leg and pull, sending me falling onto the mats with a _thud_ and a _whoosh_ of lost air.

"Ouch," I moan. I crack open an eye to see Natasha's emerald eyes staring back at me. "Was that necessary?"

"Yeah," she says, as if it were obvious, as she moves off me and rocks back on her haunches. "Why would it not be?"

"I hate you," I moan as I slowly move into a hunched sitting position, my synthetic-spandex shirt coming unstuck from my skin with a gross sucking noise.

"No you don't," Natasha counters, her eyes catching something behind me. "Oh, look who's here. Hey, birthday boy."

"It's not my birthday yet, Nat," a warm voice behind me calls. "Nine years, and you still don't get that. It's sad, really."

I gingerly move to face Clint, who had a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a small backpack secured on his back. "Hey. You all packed?"

He nods as he slowly helps me up, my sore muscles protesting every movement. "So how bad did you lose this time?"

"I didn't-"

"She only lasted two minutes forty. I think sparrow is distracted."

"Am not," I defend, glaring over my shoulder at Natasha.

"Sorry," Clint apologizes, "but I'm with Natasha on this."

"Really feeling the love, Clint," I mutter. "Really."

He just rolls his eyes and hitches the duffel higher on my shoulder. "So do you have any plans while I'm away?"

"I've got some plans for finalizing Beta V," I confess as we slowly move out of the gym. "I'm working on adjusting the G-Force absorption systems in order to achieve higher speeds at maximum velocity."

Clint nods, thankfully used to me spouting technical terms to understand that I'm just making it safer for me to go faster. "Yeah, wouldn't want you to fall to pieces."

"Thanks," I drawl. "Love you too."

Clint just gives me a charming smile that has been proven to make me melt into a puddle of goo every time.

"You're both sickening," Natasha declares, slipping between us and into the elevator.

"And you're just jealous," I tease as I lean stiffly against the elevator wall.

We step out onto the top floor of the Tower – which contained a small lounge area, kitchenette, suit disassembly platform, and about five different general armories – to see that Dad and Bucky were all packed and waiting, with Steve and Darcy just milling around, Thor being currently MIA.

"What took you so long, birdbrain?" Dad demands.

"Mental preparation for a weekend with you," Clint fires back, the retort lacking any real heat.

Dad ignores him, instead addressing the room at a whole. "Say your goodbyes, children. The bus leaves in three minutes."

Everyone scurries into smaller groups, and I let Natasha say goodbye to her best friend before leaving to go say goodbye to my dad, of all people.

"Are you gonna miss me?" Clint asks impishly.

"Not at _all_ ," I grin. "Dummy, You, and Butterfingers are great sources of emotional comfort."

"I see how it is," Clint laughs. "Smooching up to the bots whenever I leave town."

"Don't worry, you don't have to worry about me running off with a hunk of metal," I quip, playing along.

"One minute!" Dad calls.

Clint pulls me into a gentle hug, minding my stiff torso. "Take care of yourself, sparrow. Don't make me sic Nat on you."

"Ye of little faith," I sigh dramatically.

"Don't act like it's never happened before."

"I know," I sigh again. "Alright, you should get going before Dad blows a gasket."

"But that'd be funny," Clint complains.

"It is," I agree, "but didn't you want to have fun in Vegas? That means you have to break him _after_ you get there."

"Spoil sport," Clint grumbles, but pulls me in for a kiss. "See you on the eleventh, then?"

I nod as my dad shouts something behind Clint and gently nudge my boyfriend towards where Bucky and Dad were waiting. I return Bucky's wave as he shuffles away from Steve and lean a hip against the armchair as the trio disappears up the roof access stairs.

"No, _you_ hang up first," a voice says behind me, in a poor imitation of what I _think_ was supposed to be me.

I turn to look at Natasha. "We are _nothing_ like that."

"If it helps," Darcy interjects from atop a barstool, "I've seen worse couples than you."

"It doesn't help," I sigh, sinking slowly onto the couch, sprawling out and snatching the remote from Darcy.

"Hey! I was watching that!" she whines.

I ignore her as I flip through the channels.

"I want a bet," Natasha declares suddenly, making us all pause and look at her.

"On what?" I ask hesitantly – the words 'Natasha' and 'bet' didn't usually go in the same sentence, and when they did, it usually ended in pain for someone _other than_ Natasha.

"I bet that one of the Three Musketeers will get hitched by the end of the weekend," she challenges.

"To…whom?" Steve asks slowly. "Each other, one of us, a random stranger they stumble upon…what?"

"I'll put in twenty on the random stranger thing," Darcy offers. "You wouldn't believe how many comments you guys get where they're rabid fangirls and fanboys asking for your hand in marriage. Sometimes all at once."

I shudder. Darcy had been hired on as the social media consultant for the Avengers – essentially, she ran, edited, and monitored our Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, so on and so forth. I didn't envy her one bit.

"My original bet was each other," Natasha admits. "They'll get so hammered that they'll think it's a good idea to marry one of the others."

I consider this for a moment before announcing, "I'll bet twenty against that."

Natasha raises an eyebrow. " _Really_?"

"Yep."

"Even knowing who your father is?" she challenges.

"He's unpredictable," I counter. "Which is why I know why I'm doing. Twenty on no marriages."

Natasha just shrugs and relaxes back against the couch.

"Unpredictability runs in the family," Darcy mutters, but I pointedly ignore her.

About ten minutes later Steve speaks up again. "Am I the only one who thinks this is going to end badly?"

"No," I deny. "My dad's been to Vegas a total of four times before this for something or other and none of the ended well."

"Such optimism," Darcy snorts.

"What?" I defend. "It's true. And we sent the top three troublemakers, too."

"We didn't think this through, did we?" Natasha sighs.

"We didn't," Steve agrees.

"Well, at least we've got time before it all starts," I remind them, settling on a movie that was just starting. "Who wants to watch _Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull_?"

Steve agrees, intent on catching up on modern media, as Natasha gets up to get popcorn.

The opening credits roll on screen, and I settle in to watch, pointedly ignoring the problems that loomed on the horizon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to RussianAssassin, TheGirlOfTooManyFandoms, Rebecca Frost, and Anonymous (Guest) for reviewing the last chapter!**

* * *

Two a.m. phone calls are _never_ a good thing.

If it's someone from work – Maria – then it means I have to get up and actually look presentable because it's mid-afternoon in China and they want my money.

If it's an Avengers' Assemble alert, it means I have to get up and fight the "super" villain of the week.

If it's one of the Avengers, they're about to get their heads ripped off by a sleep-deprived monster.

If it's my dad calling when he's over 2,500 miles away and either drunk or hungover…things weren't good.

"Hello?" I moan into my pillow after fumbling in the dim light of my reactor for my phone.

" _T'yl'r?"_ a familiar voice slurs. _"Heeeeyyy-"_

"It's two in the morning," I groan. "Dad, not be rude, but why are you calling?"

" _Iss…Iss – um – uh – er…I forgot."_

I roll over and bang my head against my pillow a few times, mumbling swear words in German. "Okay, so can I hang up now?"

" _No,"_ he whines. _"Don't goooo."_

"I was trying to sleep," I complain. "Clint made me promise to sleep."

" _Oohh!"_ he exclaims on the other end. _"Yeah, tha's – tha's it!"_

"Oh thank god," I sigh in relief. "What is it?"

" _We – we los' the bird!"_ Dad wails – no, literally, honest-to-god _wails._

"You lost…you had a bird?" I ask. "What? Um, okay…is Bucky there?"

" _Ooh, buzz-kill, 'e's here, yeah."_

"Great," I sigh. "Give Bucky the phone, please."

" _No, don' wanna…"_

"Three."

" _Nooo."_

"Two."

" _Buuut-"_

"One-"

" _Hehe, I said butt – no fair!"_ There's a bit of rustling before another – much soberer – voice comes on the line. _"Myshka?"_

"Speaking." I give a sigh of relief. "Thank Thor you're still sane."

" _Barely,"_ Bucky snorts. _"For the record, I hate you."_

"Why? All you had to do was go to Vegas, gamble, have a few drinks – oh." I pause. "Damn. Super-soldier. Damn it. You can't get drunk."

" _Right, genius,"_ he sighs.

"Okay, okay," I brush that aside for the moment. "I'll grovel later, promise. For now, what's going on? Dad said something about a bird."

" _What – oh, that. Um, it's a long story, and I'm gonna need help wiping a few police records, but we've run into a small bit of an issue."_

"An issue?" I sigh – this was going to be bad, I just knew it, and I was _still_ tired.

" _Yeah,"_ he draws out the word slowly. _"Just a small thing. No biggie. Not at all-"_

" _Barnes_ ," I hiss. "It is…2:13 a.m. I was sleeping – for once – when I got a call from my _very_ drunk father. I highly doubt he butt-dialed me, so what. Is. It?"

I hear him sigh deeply. _"Okay, okay – fine. Fine. Um, you see, thing is…we…may have…lost Clint."_

I nearly drop the phone in sleep-deprived shock. "You lost…?"

" _Lost Clint,"_ he repeats. _"Um…sorry?"_

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Bucky, zhè dàodǐ shì zěnmeliǎo?" _What the hell is wrong with you?_ I ask, choosing Mandarin to be my language of choice. "Really."

" _I'm sorry,"_ he apologizes again. _"I still hate you but I'm sorry. Can…can you just come down here, and bring backup, because I need help. Please? Pretty please?"_

The Winter Soldier, feared assassin for decades, was begging at my feet. Mwhahahahahaha – _right._

"I'll be there soon," I sigh. "I was actually sleeping tonight," I lament. "This is what I get."

" _I'm sorry, myshka."_

I sigh again. "Yeah. Just – keep it together until I get there."

" _Will do,"_ he agrees.

"Oh – and Barnes?" I call just before he hangs up. "If you lose my dad I will murder you in the most painful and slowest way possible, bring you back, and do it all over again."

" _Um…okay,"_ he sighs. _"I won't."_

"Darn right," I grumble, ending the call and emitting a jaw-cracking yawn. "Jarvis, wake up the Tower. It's not an Assemble call, but I do need people up."

" _Even Miss Lewis, ma'am?"_ the AI asks.

I tilt my head curiously. "Didn't she say she was working on that new Tumblr page? No, let her sleep, she isn't paid for this. Tell her where we are when she wakes up, though. And start the coffee maker on floor 50. If there isn't coffee by the time I'm down there you'll be a Jarvis _a_."

" _Of course, ma'am,"_ Jarvis replies dutifully.

I quickly change into a t-shirt, jeans, and a pair of old sneakers and slip out without waking Darcy, opting to bypass my contacts for glasses.

Thankfully for Jarvis' masculinity, there's a pot of freshly-brewed dark roast when I reach the Avengers' Communal floor. I fish out a mug that had _Scientists: Just regular people who are way smarter than you_ written on the side and fill it almost to the brim, putting enough sugar into the cup to put an elephant into a diabetic coma.

The sounds of zombie-like shuffling alert me to me teammate's presences. Natasha appears first; she actually looks slightly ruffled and has a gun haphazardly shoved into the waistband of her sweatpants. Steve's got his shield but no shirt, and he's wearing BuckyBear pajama bottoms.

(I quickly sign to Jarvis to get pictures. _Blackmail_.)

"What is it?" Natasha groans as she drops onto a barstool, accepting the Black Widow mug I slide across the island.

"Dad just called," I explain as Steve gets his own cup of coffee and joins us. "And Bucky managed to explain that they've lost a certain archer."

"They didn't," Natasha hisses.

"They did," I counter. "And my father's being a drunken hot mess, so now guess what? We get to go to Vegas to play Catch That Hawk."

"I wish it were under better circumstances," Steve sighs mournfully into his mug. Natasha gives his shoulder a light pat.

"Question," she interrupts. "Before we go running after the boys, how do we even get to Vegas? They took the jet."

I swear, sigh, and pull out my phone, pulling up a map. "It's 2,524 miles from here to there. That's a 36 hour drive."

"We could fly?" Steve suggests.

I give him an appraising look. "Steve, you're what, six two, six three?" He nods. "And built like a tank," I continue. "Flying commercial with you would be a nightmare, no offense."

He nods again and droops slightly.

"Is the suit an option?" Natasha asks.

"Beta V isn't quite field ready yet, and even at top speeds that would take me over an hour and a half," I calculate. "Beta III and IV, which are the most updated ready ones, would take me double that. And those are just me." I glance at them. "There is no way I'm flying three hours there and back twice. No. Just _no_."

"Agreed," Natasha nods. "Wait, that's it."

I cock my head. "What?"

"The boys took the Stark jet, not the Quinjet," she explains. "It won't be comfortable, but we can get there."

I frown at the prospect of spending nearly three and a half hours cooped up in a military-grade Quinjet, but it was the best idea thus far. "If we must," I sigh. "Now, we need stuff – Nat, can you pack Clint's stuff? Steve, you get your boyfriend's-"

"He's _not_ my boyfriend!"

"Whatever you say, Spangles," I continue, ignoring his whisper-shriek. "I'll get my dad's stuff."

"Why can't you get Clint's stuff?" Natasha asks as she drains the last of her coffee.

"Because it's uncomfortable for me to dig through my boyfriend's underwear drawer," I admit, then arch an eyebrow. "Unless you're that eager to dig through my father's drawers, Nat?"

"I'm not," she denies, and I think I see something shift on her face before it's gone. "Fine, I'll get Hawkeye's stuff. Weapons?"

"Only your own and Bucky's," I deicide. "The rest of them are drunk. Steve, don't bring your shield."

"I won't," Steve promises as he ambles out of the kitchen.

I nod and head over to one of the kitchen cabinets, grabbing the pistol that was clipped to the sideboard and checking it before deeming it okay to take and setting it on the counter as I head for the elevator and press the button for Dad's floor.

Fifteen minutes later I have a small backpack filled with a sweatshirt, a pair of sweatpants, a few emergency credit cards, Dad's ID card, and his passport, along with Mark V – just in case. You could never be sure with Vegas.

I meet Natasha down on the Communal floor again, where she's got a small grey satchel packed for Clint and six travel mugs set out on the counter.

"Tasha, you're a saint." I grab the red and gold and black and purple ones, putting Dad's – which was filled with a bitter, black brew that would hopefully sober him up – and put it in a side pocket of the bag while taking a sip of my own coffee. "A saint, I swear."

"Not even close," she quips as Steve joins us with a brown knapsack over on shoulder and a coat on the other. "Are we ready?"

"No," I sigh. "But we're doing this anyways. Because we're superheroes, this is apparently what we do, and I really wasn't aware this was in the job description when I signed up, because-"

"Taylor, shut up."

"I'm sleepy," I whine. "Don't yell at me."

Natasha tosses me a small throw pillow. "I've got a throw blanket. Sleep on the plane."

"I still think you're a saint," I decide, hugging the pillow. "Thanks."

"No problem."

We make it up to the Quinjet in mostly silence, and I store all the bags and collapsed suit cases away as Natasha and Steve went through pre-flight checks.

"We're good to go," Natasha calls back a few minutes later. "Buckle up."

I stretch out on one of the benches, stuffing the pillow under my head and curling up under the blanket that was in the bag with Clint's stuff, awkwardly managing to strap myself in at the same time. "I'm all strapped in."

"Then let's go get our boys," Natasha declares over the start of the engines.

"Yeah," I agree with a yawn as the slightly rocking plane lulls me to sleep. "Let's go get our crazy…hot mess…lost boys."


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to Csilla (Guest), Rebecca Frost, and Anonymous (Guest) for reviewing the last chapter!**

* * *

"Taylor, wake up."

I groan and rub at my eyes, Steve's face registering above me. "Hm?"

"Wake up," he urges again. "We're here."

 _Vegas,_ my subconscious whispers. _Right._ I nod and sit up as he continues to gather the bags that were strewn around the cabin of the jet. I stand and stretch out my tight muscles, wincing at the sore spot where my gun had pressed into my hip. "That's the last time I sleep on a military grade jet."

"No, it's not," Steve scoffs, and he has a point, but I glare at him anyway. "Shut up."

"Catch," he orders as he tosses my dad's bag at me, and I grab and give it a quick once-over to make sure nothing's fallen out or spilled. Finding it to be okay, I sling it over my shoulder as Natasha emerges from the cockpit with Clint's bag strapped to her back and her own coffee mug in hand.

"We all good?" I ask her.

"We're good," she nods. "This runway's closed down for the next 24 hours, and here's hoping it won't take us that long to find them."

I just shrug as the ramp lowers. "You never know with Vegas."

"You seem really okay with all this," Natasha comments idly as we step onto the tarmac.

I give her a dry look. "I find it hilarious that you think this is the first time I've done this."

She frowns but I stall questions with a shake of my head, and we continue our walk across the tarmac in silence. We make it into the nearest terminal, and luckily for it was almost empty.

Still, Steve – probably out of habit – herds us into a quiet corner before speaking. "We need a plan."

I nod. "First off, do we know where they are?"

"Where Bucky is," Natasha corrects. "He's our fixed point here, and I'll go call and see." She moves a few feet away, and I hear her start a conversation in Russian.

Steve turns to me. "So, as far as plans go, I figure you and Natasha can spread out to find Clint, and I'll-" He's interrupted by his phone ringing, and I wince as I recognize his work-only ringtone. "I'll answer that," he sighs, lifting his phone to his ear.

I don't bother to move away, because it wasn't technically eavesdropping because a) we were coworkers and b) they wouldn't divulge anything top-secret over the phone.

"Rogers," Steve greets curtly. "No…yes, but – technically, no…I suppose…. yes, I can. Yes. No. Not at the moment. Okay…okay. As soon as I can…yes, I understand. Okay. Thank you."

He hangs up the phone with a sigh. "That was Mission Control."

"I gathered," I roll my eyes. "And?"

"I have to go be debriefed on something suspicious in Kansas," he groans. " _Kansas._ "

I smirk and reach over to pat him on the shoulder. "Boldly go forth, Dorothy."

He glares as Natasha walks back over to us. "Bucky said-" She glances between us. "What?"

I sigh and turn to look at her. "Captain Rogers, here," I flick a thumb at Steve, "has forgotten to turn off his phone and is now being called away to do his gallant duty for honor and country and all that."

They both roll their eyes at me, but Natasha just makes grabby hands for Bucky's bag. "Take the Quinjet back," she tells Steve. "We'll find the boys and the jet."

He nods and hands over the knapsack, giving both us a mock-salute as he slips out of the terminal and back into the pre-dawn darkness.

I glance at Natasha. "We need a new plan."

She nods as we begin walking to the car rental counter, glancing over at me as I pull put my phone. "What're you doing?"

"Telling Maria to hold all my calls 'til I get back," I explain absently as I finish typing a text and hit send. " _I_ will _not_ be called in."

She just snorts and shakes her head as we approach the counter and I explain that I had called ahead and had a car delivered under my name.

Fifteen minutes later and one set of keys later, Natasha and I are climbing into a purposefully nondescript mid-size SUV.

"Plan?" the redhead asks as I pull out of the airport.

"Well, we were going to tag team Clint," I explain, "but now that the Star-Spangled Wonder has left us, one of us is going to wrangle my father and the other is going to find Clint." I glance over at her. "Dibs on Clint."

"Don't leave me with Tony," she groans. "You're the Tony-whisperer."

"And who talked him down during the Mother's Day Disaster?" She doesn't answer, but that's answer enough. "Exactly."

I smirk as we turn into the parking lot high-class hotel that Bucky had said they were staying at.

"This is classy," Natasha comments as we park and grab our bags.

"Did you expect anything else from Tony Stark?" I ask rhetorically as we make our way into the lobby with it's polished marble floors, chandeliers, and velvet everything. I catch myself unconsciously shifting into my "press persona", trying to pull off 'classy' even in a t-shirt, jeans, and old sneakers.

Natasha returns from the concierge desk with a half-eaten cookie, reporting that "B'cky 'n T'ny 're in r'm 'or-oh-'ix."

"Room 406?" I confirm, and at her nod, head towards the elevator. "Why didn't I get a cookie?"

"You snooze, you lose," she reasons, ducking my hand as I tried to smack her over the head. "Did you want a cookie _that bad_?"

"No," I snort. "Hotel cookies suck. But you could've _grabbed_ me one, spider."

"Well, I'm sorry, sparrow," she sasses, "next time I'll get you one, if only to not offend your delicate sensibilities."

I snarl and make obscene hand gestures, but I can't do much more before the elevator doors open onto the fourth floor of the hotel.

We quickly find the room marked 406, but it's locked. I sigh and bang on the door a little harder than necessary. "Snowflake! Open up!"

"I'm coming!" a hoarse voice calls. "Hold on a moment-" He's cut off by a crash and the sound of glass breaking, and there's a litany of New Yorker curses in Russian – which was honestly _very_ Bucky Barnes – before the door opens, revealing an extremely ruffled ex-assassin. "Finally, thank god."

I raise an eyebrow and look him up and down. "You look like crap, Barnes."

He gives me a deadpan 'no, really, Sherlock?' look and gestures us inside with exaggerated courtesy.

The hotel suite is a mess – there's clothes everywhere, various shot glasses on every flat surface, a pair of boxers hanging from the ceiling fan, and a mysterious liquid dangerously close to my left foot.

"Tony's in the second bedroom," Bucky explains, accepting his bag from Natasha.

I nod and make my way down the hall, finding the instructed door and finding it unlocked and slightly ajar. To my credit, I only hesitate slightly before walking in.

And then freezing.

Because there are some things that should not be seen _ever_ , and my father in a white, spangled, gaudy Elvis jumpsuit (complete with Elvis haircut!) is one of them.

I squeeze my eyes shut and open them and yeah, he's still there, unconscious.

I throw up my hands and back out of the room. "No. Just…no, nope, nopeity nope." I march back into the living room. "Elvis?! _Really_?"

Bucky raises his hands in surrender, and I pinch the bridge of my nose and count to ten before looking at Natasha. "Not it."

She huffs and crosses her arms. "You can't seriously be considering leaving me hear with Tony-Elvis."

"Losersayswhat."

"What?"

"Ha!" I bounce a few times. "Yes! Okay, so, now Bucky gets to come with me and hunt down Clint, and you get babysitting duty."

"Taylor-"

I grab Clint's bag and Bucky and run, practically dragging the super-soldier behind me. "Did we just-?"

"We did," I confirm. "Are we doomed?"

"We might be doomed," he agrees. "I still hate you."

"I know, I'll make it up to you," I promise. "But for now…"

I look over to meet Bucky's eyes. "You, sir, have some explaining to do."


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks to Csilla (Guest), Rebecca Frost, nightmarehunter676, RussianAssassin, Anonymous (Guest), TheGirlOfTooManyFandoms, Demona Evernight, and Allbird1 for reviewing that last chapter.**

 **Pretty sure that's the most reviews I've ever gotten on a single chapter before! Thank you!**

* * *

Ten minutes later, Bucky and I are in the car and headed for the closest place the boys had stopped last night; it was about 20 minutes south of the hotel and had a reputation of being the "shady" part of Vegas.

The area we were entering had the nickname of "The Naked City" – what that entailed, I didn't know, but I _did_ know that I had been in my fair share of shady places and I was _not_ looking forward to this.

"Are we there yet?" I ask my companion, my eyes nervously scanning our surroundings.

"No, just like when you asked two minutes ago," Bucky sighed, briefly glancing my way. "Scared?"

"No," I huff. "I can take almost anyone here. Doesn't mean I like it though. Does your night get any better?"

He just nods as he turns into a small parking lot half obscured by weeds and overgrowth. He parks in front of a small, dilapidated building, the sign on the roof proclaiming that they sold _"Cigars, Liquor, and More."_

I give it a suspicious glance. "Why were you here again?"

"We wanted cheap booze, okay?" Bucky defends. "Clint said he had contacts."

"Of course," I sigh as he climbs out of the car. I take off any valuable items and put my phone in the glove compartment, making sure my gun is loaded before I hop out of the car, wrinkling my nose at the heavy scent of cigar smoke the blanketed the air.

 _Note to self: talk to Clint about his "contacts"._

I trot after Bucky as he approaches the store and holds the door open for me. "After you."

"I'd rather not," I grumble, but step in anyways, and I'm immediately assaulted by a scent that made my eyes water as I nearly bent over double, coughing up a lung.

I was the same scent that could be found in some of the dingier New York back alleys: someone was definitely smoking something in here, and at least I knew what the " _More,"_ on the sign was.

 _Re: Note to self: Clint owes me big time._

"Having trouble there, missy?"

I stiffen and slowly swivel, rearing back once I come face to face with a disheveled man with meth on his breath. I quickly decide on the best course of action and raise my hands, palms out. "I don't want any trouble."

"Of course not," Meth-Head grins, revealing a mouth full of yellow, crooked teeth. "A pretty lil' thing like you shoudn' want any…trouble."

Normally the derivative would annoy me to no end, but right now I just wanted this guy to go away and Bucky to hurry up so we could leave and never come back again.

So I take a half-step back, keeping my hands up. "I'll be out of hair in a minute." _I hope._

Meth-Head shuffles forward a little bit. "Naw, you should stay…get t'know the area…"

Right then, three things happened all at once: one, Meth-head took a step forward, coming entirely too close for comfort. Two, my knee came up to collide nicely with his groin. Three, my right hand came up and grabbed his neck from behind, slamming his forehead into the edge of the shelf next to us with a sharp _crack._

Quickly nudging the downed figure with the toe of my shoe to make sure he's not dead, I glance up and find Bucky across the shop.

"Um, James?" I call nervously. "We need to go. _Now_."

Bucky, startled by my rare use of his first name, looks up from where he was talking to the store owner – a guy with the rosy cheeks of an alcoholic – and sees me standing over the unmoving guy. Unfortunately, so does Rosy-Cheeks, who lets out a roar of anger and turns back to Bucky.

Except Bucky was across the shop before you could say 'druggie', stepping over Meth-Head and ushering me out the door. Once we're safely in the car and out of the parking lot, he glares at me. "Really?"

"He was getting a bit too close there," I defend. "And it's not like I shot him or anything."

"Good point," he sighs, then stiffens. "Did he do...?"

"Nothing other than be creepy," I assure him, watching the 'Winter Soldier' glare recede back behind 'Modern Bucky'. "I took care of it. Did you get anything?"

Bucky uses one hand to scratch the back of his neck. "Not…really."

I narrow my eyes at him, crossing my arms. "So I went through that for nothing?"

"Well…"

I hiss out a breath between my teeth. "You're lucky I don't know where to go from here."

He nods quickly a pokes at the GPS. "Speaking of where to go next…" He programs in an address about ten miles north, just northeast of the hotel, which was apparently called The Venetian.

I relax back against my seat, pulling up the tracking program I was working on to try and locate Clint faster when I'm interrupted by my phone blasting out Iggy Azalea's _Black Widow_. I sigh before hitting the answer button and lifting the phone to my ear. "Hello."

" _Ya nenavizhu tebya. Tak mnogo. Ya nenavizhu tebya, ya nenavizhu tebya..."_

"Yes, I get that you hate me at the moment, Tasha," I sigh, "but what's up?"

" _Listen to this!"_ she snarls, and there's some muffled movement before another, more slurred voice comes on the line.

And he's singing '90s country music. Badly. _"But don't tell my heart…my achy breaky heart…I - I just don't think he'd understaaaaand…And if you tell my heart…My breaky…achy…heaaaaart…"_

I slide down in my seat, my face burning with…something. "Dad? I – dad."

" _Muh?"_

"Yes – hi there. Please don't make Nat kill you," I request. "Also, if you're going to sing," _horribly off-key_ "then please at least sing an actual Elvis song. That one was released 15 years after Elvis died."

" _Oh…"_ Dad seems to have an epiphany. _"Ohh…kay!"_

And then he's off again. _"Everybody 'n th' whole cell block...was dancin' t' th' Jailhouse Rooock…."_

I nod, even though he can't see, and quickly click off the phone before Natasha can get it back.

"You need to stop doing that," Bucky mutters.

"Doing what?" I ask innocently.

"You know _what_ , genius," he sighs. "Quit hanging up on Natasha. Do you want to die before you can legally drink?"

"I'll be fine," I wave him off. "She can't leave the hotel because that you leave my dad alone and there isn't a way to kill me through my phone – believe me, I would've found it by now."

"Whatever, myshka," he sighs, and the car falls silent again.

I lean my head against the window, watching the cars pass in the still-dark morning. A passing police cruiser pokes something in my memory. "Hey Buck?"

"Yeah?"

"Earlier, when you called the Tower," I turn to look at him. "You said something about police records. What was it?"

He sighs and pinches his eyes closed briefly. "I'd hoped you'd forgotten that, damn it. Can I preface this by saying it was Tony's fault?"

"It usually is."

"True," he nods. "He got arrested for dressing like Elvis."

I give Bucky an odd look. "In _Vegas_? Really? I can count at least fifteen Elvis impersonators and I've literally been in the city for less than an hour. That's not a crime."

"It is when you get up on stage when they don't want you there, and when they call security you club one of them over the head with your vodka bottle," he corrects.

"He was drinking vodka?"

"That's all you caught there?" Bucky asks incredulously.

"He got arrested, then?" I ask, ignoring his previous question.

"Yeah," Bucky nods. "Public intoxication, once I explained that he actually _was_ drunk. He got booked for 24 hours in the drunk tank, at minimum."

I freeze as his words sink in. "How'd he get out?"

"Calm down, he just went the bathroom and 'never came back,'" he reassures me. "I think. There's no telling what he did in the bathroom, though. He was really drunk at this point."

"Remind me to call the police station later," I sigh as Bucky turns into another parking lot.

We were parked in front of a really large, really flashy casino with enough bright colors and flashing lights that it made my eyes hurt just thinking about it.

I sigh as I get out of the car. My day just kept getting better and better, didn't it?


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks to RussianAssassin, Dreamer558750, Rebecca Frost, Csilla (Guest), and Anonymous (Guest) for reviewing the last chapter.**

 **Special thanks to RussianAssassin for helping me out when my plot bunnies died. This chapter would not be possible without her.**

* * *

Four hours, five casinos, and two angry phone calls from Natasha later, Bucky and I still hadn't found Clint and we were almost out of leads. I knew that if we didn't find him soon, we'd have to report him missing, which would make this entire situation come to light and that was the _last_ thing I wanted.

In the meantime, Bucky and I had stopped at a little roadside café for breakfast, given that neither of us had eaten anything since the night before.

"You alright?" Bucky asks from across the table.

I shrug, prodding at my breakfast burrito with my fork. "Just thinking."

"That's dangerous," he teases, nibbling at his hash brown patty-sausage-sandwich-thing.

"For you, maybe," I fire back, but I can't keep the small smile off my face.

"What were you thinking about?" Bucky asks off-handedly, and I shrug again. "Fine then, don't tell me. Did you get a hit on the cell tower thing yet?"

I shake my head. Earlier I had tried to get at least a vague area on Clint's location by triangulating cell signals from nearby towers, but I turned up nothing, so either his phone was off or dead; the latter was more likely at this point.

"But that'd be too easy," I point out. "Nothing is ever easy for us."

"Good point," he agrees, raising his cup in a silent salute. "We'll find him soon."

"Hopefully," I agree. We quickly finish our breakfast, cleaning up the trash and I was just about to follow Bucky out when my phone rang, showing an unfamiliar number. I frown slightly as I pick up the call. "Hello?"

" _Hello there,"_ a male voice with a slight southern twang says on the other end of the line. _"I'm looking for a Taylor Stark?"_

"That depends." My frown deepens. "Who is this?"

" _This is Officer Moore from the Las Vegas Police Department. We had a Mr. Anthony Stark in our custody late last night."_

"He's my father," I sigh wearily and lean a hip against a nearby table, feeling Bucky's curious gaze on me. "Is there anything I can help you with, Officer?"

 _"I'm calling because a short while ago two of our officers found an aerosol bomb in the men's bathroom."_

I pause, blink once, twice, and pull the phone away from my ear as I let loose a string of caustic and colorful words in about five different languages.

"Son of a _mother_ \- yes, Officer?"

 _"Miss Stark, we need you to come down to the station as soon as possible to look at what happened. We need to determine if Mr. Stark will be facing charges or not."_

"I'll come down as soon as I can," I promise. "I already know the address."

Moore pauses on the other end of the line, and I can almost see the cogs turning in his head. _"Okay then, ma'am. I'll see you soon."_

And then he hangs up without another word, leaving me glaring at my now-dark phone. "You know, for a guy that protects and serves, he doesn't know how to hang up very politely."

"Who?" Bucky asks from the front of the restaurant. "And come _on_ , slowpoke."

I jog to catch up with him. "That was the police station."

He arches an eyebrow. "That's never good. Who did what?"

"Dad left them a small parting gift when he broke out – I mean left."

Bucky just nods and hops into the driver's side of the car before turning to look at me. "How do you plan on getting there?"

"You could drive me," I suggest hopefully, but he just gives me a dubious look. "Please? Pretty please?"

"What's in it for me?" he challenges.

I raise both eyebrows into my hairline. "Really?"

"Really."

I sigh and pretend to consider this as I turn my back to the former assassin.

When I turn back around, Bucky's greeted with DEFCON-1 puppy-dog eyes that will make any male at the Tower melt.

And ten minutes later, he drops me off at the Southern Las Vegas Police Station with a parting shot of "I hate you."

"Puppy dog eyes are a magical thing, snowflake!" I shout after the retreating car, getting several odd looks from passers-by. I ignore them as I trot into the police station and sign in at the reception desk, where a perky lady named Molly with large – um – _assets_ asked who I needed to see.

"An Officer Moose – uh, Moore, sorry, called me about an aerosol bomb about ten minutes ago," I explain, and she nods.

"He'll be right with you, miss, if you could just wait a moment," she explains, and I nod and nonchalantly lean against her desk.

Which turns out to be a bad idea, since as soon as Miss Molly sees I'm not going anyone, she starts with the questions. "So you live with Mr. Stark, right?"

I barely glance at her, completely used to this line of questioning. "Yes."

"Are you, like, his girlfriend, or something?"

This does cause me to look at her, mentally raising an eyebrow because _you don't know who I am?_ "No, ma'am, I'm his daughter."

"So he's single, then?" she prods, and I watch a familiar gleam enter her eyes.

I give a quiet sigh as I quickly weigh my options. _To lie or not to lie? Do you think I could lie about Natasha…? Nah, she'd kill me, and it's too early for that._ "Currently, yes, ma'am."

"Oh, that's awesome! D'you think you could, like, get me his number or something? I would _love_ to meet him – I mean, he's so _hot_ -"

I mentally sigh and grit my teeth. _Here they go again…_

"-and have you _seen_ his butt? I mean, mee- _ow_ , and in the _front_ -"

I cough loudly, cutting her off abruptly. "Hey, no offense, but-" _I really don't need to hear that, shut up now_.

Thankfully, I'm saved by a uniformed officer coming out into the reception area. The officer's a well-built man, extremely average looking – kind of like Coulson, but it was like Coulson rocked the 'Average Joe' look while Officer Moose – _Moore_ , sorry – just tried to pull it off.

"Miss Stark," he greets me wearily. "Come with me."

I fall into step behind him as he leads me deeper into the station, and I idly wonder if this is what being called to the principal's office is like before he ushers me into a small conference room and shuts the door behind me.

I take a seat across the table from him, giving the sparse room a once-over. "So, on the phone you said something about an aerosol bomb?"

"Yes," he agrees, rubbing a hand across his face wearily. "Miss Stark, may I be frank with you for a moment?"

I give a half-shrug. "Sure, go ahead."

"Your father is insane," he tells me, with it coming a slightly shell-shocked look. "I have half a station of officers that are covered in hair-spray and pink glitter. What do you say to that?"

"Two things," I reply calmly. "One, where did he get the glitter? Two, does the hair at least look _good_?"

The officer across the table just glares at me – and I recognize this glare, it's the 'I am done with your crap' mixed with 'why must you be so hellishly annoying?'. "Miss Stark, I will need to press charges."

"For what?" I snort. "Attacking people with glitter and hair products? Really, Officer, if your people can't withstand that, I fear for the safety of this city."

His glare intensifies. "Miss Stark, he made a bomb. I could take him in on domestic terrorism charges right this moment if I felt the urge to do so."

"I disagree," I counter. "If you looked him up, at all, you would find that every single one of the Avengers has the qualifications to carry 600 grams of explosive material* or 10 ounces of liquid explosive material. Given that my father only had six ounces of hair-spray on him and he carries more than that on a daily basis, he was well within his rights."

"He could have hurt someone!" Moore argues.

"If he hadn't known what he was doing, sure," I concede. "If he had been some novice drunk teenager, yeah, he could've done some serious damage. But my father has been building explosives since at least 1980 or so. That's 40 years of experience, Officer, and at this point, I have no doubt that Tony Stark could build a bomb in his sleep. Or drunk."

"As nice as that is, ma'am," the officer sighs condescendingly, and my hackles begin to go up, "the point still stands that he could have seriously injured several police officers and that is a _crime_."

I hiss out a breath between clenched teeth. "Officer, how old do you think I am?"

Moore blinks at the non-sequitur. "Um…Eighteen? Nineteen, maybe?"

 _Damn my father's short genes,_ I curse internally. Outwardly, I just shake my head. "I turned twenty this year, which means I am an adult. And as an adult, I have the legal right to make my father's decisions in the case that he is, and I quote, 'physically, medically, emotionally, or mentally incapacitated to the point of not being sound of mind and/or body.' And he's currently incapacitated, which means I have the right to say you _will not_ press charges."

His eyes narrow to slits. "Is that a threat, Miss Stark? After all, nobody is above the law."

I give a humorless chuckle. "No, no, officer, you misunderstand." I take out a thin black wallet from my back pocket, flipping it open to show a stainless steel badge stamped with an 'A' on one side and my Avengers' ID on the other. "Do you see this badge, Officer? This badge means that no, while I am not above the law, I do have the right to carry concealed weapons with me wherever I go _._ My father has one of these too, and if you'd _like_ to press charges, then be my guest. No jury in the land would convict him."

By now Moore's face is turning an unhealthy shade of purple. "We'll see about _that_." I watch his hand move to a desk phone, presumably to call in the cavalry to take me away, but I'm out of the room before that can happen, escaping the station through a back door that leads to an abandoned lot.

I pace briskly as I take out my phone and press speed dial 4. After two rings, a familiar, brisk voice sounds on the other end.

" _Coulson."_

"Phil," I sigh. "Hey, I need you to clean up a little something."

" _You always do,"_ Dad's assistant sighs, _"and it's never little. What is it?"_

I explain the story from the beginning, and by the time I'm done, I am feeling a little bit better.

I still want to punch Moose though. And his receptionist.

" _I'll take care of it,"_ Phil promises, but I can hear the rattle of a pill bottle in the background – it's either the Tylenol or the antacids he kept in his desk. _"Keeping in under the radar, I assume?"_

"Please. And if you could warn Darcy about this too…"

" _You owe me,"_ he groans. _"Remember the last time someone had to tell Darcy bad news."_

I grimace at the memory. "Jones is _still_ in therapy. But if it's any consolation, you can take her out for donuts to soften the blow. Put in on my dad's card. Deal?"

" _Deal,"_ he sighs again. _"Try not to get into too much more trouble, please?"_

"You should know that that isn't possible by now, Agent," I give a small smile. "But I'll do my best."

" _Sure you will,"_ he drawls. _"Bye, Taylor."_

"Bye, Phil. Thanks again." I pull the phone away from my ear and end the call, leaning back against the building and letting out a slow sigh of relief.

My brief respite is interrupted my phone chirping with a text message. Glancing down, I can see that it's from Bucky.

 _We found him,_ it reads, _and it isn't great. Hurry._

I quickly switch my phone off and slide it back into my pocket, my brain immediately whirring for solutions to get from here to where Bucky was.

An idea occurs to me and a I sprint around the building, to where a lot of patrol cars were parked. My eyes find the nearest officer – a young guy, probably not much older than I was and fresh out of the academy.

I march purposefully up to him and flip open my badge. "I need to commandeer your car, officer, for the next few hours. Official Avengers business, my apologies."

I'm very quickly the temporary owner of the keys to Unit #38. I quickly slide in, starting the car and just sitting there for a moment.

 _Try not to get into too much more trouble, please?_

Maybe I owed Coulson a raise.

* * *

 ***= I know that this might sound like a lot of explosives, but a single hand grenade only holds about 250 grams, so this is about three grenades.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks to RussianAssassin, nightmarehunter676, Rebecca Frost, Guest (Guest), Dreamer558750, TheGirlOfTooManyFandoms and Anonymous (Guest) for reviewing the last chapter.**

* * *

The look on Bucky's face as I pulled up to the in a cop car was _priceless._

"What did you do?" he scowls.

"Flipped a badge," I reply with an innocent grin as I get out of the car. "Official Avengers' business, you know."

He glares at me. "Steve is going to have your head for misuse of official privileges, you know that?"

"Not if you're there," I smirk. "He _loooves_ you."

"Shut up," Bucky growls, his cheeks flaring red. "He does not."

"Keep telling yourself that," I snigger, remembering the pictures I had on my phone of Steve in BuckyBear PJs from earlier this morning. "And besides," I continue, turning so I was walking backwards, facing him, "we're currently missing an Avenger. This takes priority, I think."

"Well, he's not exactly _missing_ ," Bucky admits. "I found him. He's just…"

I stop and look at him. "Just what?"

He sighs and hands me a pair of high-tech binoculars. "See for yourself. "He's at your one o'clock."

I take the binoculars and look in the direction Bucky had mentioned, following his finger to the very top of the Stratosphere Hotel, Casino, and Tower. Zooming in, I can just make out a small, huddled shape on the eastern side of the observation deck.

I lower the binoculars. "How did he even…?"

"Beats me," he shrugs. "I figured you'd know."

I give him an incredulous look. "Buck, that's got to be over 1,000 feet up, he's probably drunk, and I haven't seen him in nearly 24 hours. How on earth would I know?"

He seems to consider this for a moment before shrugging again. I roll my eyes and begin towards the tower, but I'm stopped by Bucky – again.

"There's only one problem," he says. "Because of your moronic boyfriend, they've locked down the entire tower. Nobody's getting in the normal way." I turn around to protest, but he just shakes his head. "Not even you."

I sigh and slowly turn to face him. "You know what this means, don't you?"

.

Half an hour later, I'm back at the hotel, staring down at the Mark V – because, of course, the _one time_ I briefly stop being paranoid and don't bring my own suit, I needed it.

"Are you sure this'll work?" Bucky asks dubiously from a few feet away.

"Yeah," I brush him off. "The concept's the same, it'll be fine."

"Right…except for the fact that Tony has about seventy-five pounds and nine inches on you," Bucky mumbles.

I ignore him as I position the armor and get ready to deploy. "Stand back," I order. "Just in case."

Bucky nods and scoots backwards as I force my foot down on the pedal with a little more force than was needed with mine. I step into the boots – they're a little too big, and I'm suddenly reminded of when I was five and literally trying to fill my dad's shoes.

The chest piece is a fair bit heavier than mine, but it goes on without much trouble – although I soon find that although my father is flat-chested, I'm not, and _wow, that's a bit tight_.

Other than that, everything else is a little big – his arms and legs are longer, his shoulders broader, but mostly everything fits well enough.

Once I'm fully enclosed, I stand there for a moment, shifting around in the sit. My feet weren't actually touching the ground, and my hands didn't reach the end of the gloves, but that's what Jarvis was for.

Speaking of Jarvis, I watch as the holoscreen lights up. _"Good morning, ma'am. May I advise against whatever endeavor you have planned?"_

I take a deep breath – or at least as deep as I could with the restricted chest space. "Good morning, J, and no you may not. Snowflake, how do I look?"

"This is creepy," Bucky's slightly muffled voice comes from my right, and I move to look at him. "I'm looking at Tony, but he has your voice."

I shrug. "Yeah, it's only temporary." I shift to try to revile some of the pressure on my collarbone and armpits. "Can we go get the hawk now?"

"Sure thing, Iron Man – I mean Beta." Bucky looks around the room. "How are you getting out?"

I just point at the window before straightening up, taking off – ignoring the scorch marks on the carpet – and heading straight for the window, smashing through and ending up in the air forty feet above the ground. It takes me a minute, but eventually – with a lot of wild flailing and help from Jarvis – I get my feet underneath me and my hands to steady out the flight.

I quickly connect to Bucky's phone. "I'll meet you at the hotel?"

" _Yeah. Tell me when you find him, okay?"_

"Will do." He hangs up the line, and I take another not-deep breath and try to calm down my jittery nerves – this was just like my suit, which I had flown for over seven years, just bigger.

Just like my suit.

Less than a minute later, I manage not to crash into the Stratosphere's observation deck, but I do crash through another window before getting inside. Once I'm in there, I can see Clint on the eastern side of the room, curled koala-style around one of the observation viewing things.

He doesn't see me as I lower myself to the ground, nor as I open up the suit. He does look up, however, as I faceplant into the hard cement floor because of a complete loss of coordination in my legs.

"You came!" he cheers, and there's _still_ a major slur to his words.

"Well, yeah," I mutter as I prop myself up on my forearms, rubbing at a new sore spot on my nose. "Bucky wasn't going to."

"But you came!" he repeats. "Knew y'would."

I pick myself up off the ground and approach slowly. "You've cause quite the stir."

He frowns. "I was jus' enjoying th' garden."

I squint at him. I didn't remember there being a garden on the checklist of places I'd visited. "What?"

"Th' garden," he repeats, waving a hand at our surroundings. "Isn' it pr'tty?"

I frown at glance around at the deck around us – which was definitely _not_ a garden – as I approach him. "This isn't a garden, love. We're in Vegas – don't you remember?"

He frowns deeply. "Nooo…so this isn' a garden?"

"Nope," I shake my head. "Sorry."

"S'ok," he sighs, as if deeply troubled, and shakily gets up to play with one of the quarter-fed viewing glasses.

Keeping one eye on him like one might an errant toddler, I take the opportunity to call Bucky.

" _Yeah?"_

"Hello to you too," I snort. "I found the bird."

" _Finally!"_ he exclaims. _"I thought I would waste away down here, slowpoke."_

"Shut up, you're only, what, 24?" I remind him.

" _Technically I turned 94 last March,"_ he corrects. _"I could very well waste away out here."_

"I'd put more money on you melting, snowflake," I quip, before my attention is drawn to Clint, who was getting too close to the center railing for my tastes. "Don't do that, yastreb."

" _What?"_

"No, not you, Buck," I backpedal. "Bucky, we need to get him down – he's drunk and I really don't fancy him falling a hundred stories."

" _Alright, I'll get the tower unlocked."_ I hear him say something to someone else in the background. _"They're getting it back up know. Try not to let feathers kill himself until then."_

"I'll do my best," I tell him dryly, watching as Clint pressed his nose against the glass. "I gotta go. See you soon." I end the call and walk over to where Clint was, grabbing his collar and pulling him away from the glass. "Has anyone told you that you're an immature drunk?"

"Yes?"

"Between you and Dad, I'll have grey hairs by thirty," I groan. "You'll pay for my hair treatments."

"S'rry," he mumbles, wrapping his arms around my torso and leaning his head against mine.

I shift and reach up to awkwardly pat his head. "You probably won't remember this in the morning anyways."

He just squeezes harder.

* * *

It takes the combined efforts of Bucky, three beefy workmen, and I to pry Clint off me and get him downstairs and out to the car, but we eventually manage it and get Clint safely into the back of the SUV.

"Well then," I brush off my hands and look over at Bucky. "Now what?"

The ex-assassin gives me a wan smile. "Now the fun part – we get to clean up our messes."


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks to RussianAssassin, Guest (Guest), nightmarehunter676, jodyowl11, Anonymous (Guest), and TheGirlOfTooManyFandoms for reviewing the last chapter.**

* * *

"I'm gonna marry you someday."

I flick my eyes up briefly, looking at my boyfriend – who was sprawled across the back seat of the SUV – in the review mirror. "Is that so?"

"Yes," he nods as decisively as he can at the moment. "Yeah, y'know why?"

Completely used to my boyfriend's usually morphine-induced ramblings, I'm completely unfazed as I reply, "Why?"

"'Cos I love you," he murmurs sweetly. "Did you know that?"

"I did," I reply softly. "You only say it every day."

"I do?" He looks genuinely pleased by this bit of news. "Tha's, tha's good."

I hum my agreement as I follow Bucky's squad car into the police station parking lot. Not two hours ago I'd swore that I'd never return here, and yet here I was, returning.

Because apparently I couldn't keep the car and turn it into the Avengers-badass-mobile, for that would be _stealing_.

Bummer.

I watch as Bucky parks the car and goes inside, where Ms. Busty Receptionist and Officer Moose were probably waiting for an explanation (that I didn't want to give).

I was also under the impression that Bucky himself was all for taking the cop car and running like hell; Steve, however, was not, and the influence one super-soldier had over another was apparently too great (for my tastes anyways).

" _Ma'am?"_ I'm ripped out of my thoughts by a quiet British voice coming from my phone on the dashboard. _"You have a call coming in from Mr. Coulson."_

I nod and glance behind me – Clint's out cold. "J, put the privacy screen up and then link him through."

" _Of course, Miss Stark."_ There's a low hum as a soundproof fogged glass wall slides between the front seats and the back, followed by the windows tinting and the windshield lighting up with a video screen and all the lights in the car changing to the same blue of the reactor. _"Linking him through now."_

The screen lights up with Coulson's deceptively bland face and, next to him, Maria waits patiently.

My smile droops a bit. "Phil, Maria. I'm not being called in, am I? I can't come in at the moment."

" _No, you aren't being called in Taylor,"_ Maria placates. _"Although I wish you would."_

I tip my head. "Why?"

" _Well, not only are we experiencing a bit of paperwork backlog here,"_ Maria starts.

" _-but there's also the fact that you stole a cop car,"_ Phil deadpans, the slightly see-through screen showing his displeasure perfectly.

"Not _stole_ ," I correct. " _Borrowed._ For official business."

" _I'm going to ignore the blatant misuse of your badge there,"_ Coulson says dryly. _"And instead, let's talk about how you_ borrowed _a cop car right after I expressly told you not to."_

"You aren't my real dad!" I screech dramatically.

" _And I don't envy Tony."_

"He would've been right here next to me, had he not been drunk."

" _Aren't you supposed to be the sensible one?"_

"Who told you _that_?"

" _You're incorrigible."_

"Thank you."

" _Children!"_ Maria snaps, glaring at both of us. _"Yes, hello, we're getting back on topic now."_

I nod and sit back in my chair. "See, this is why I hired you, you've got your crap together. Why are you calling?"

" _We managed to get Tony's charges dropped,"_ Phil explains. _"And it turns out there was also a warrant out for Clint – Breaking and Entering, but we dropped that too. Steve said you found him?"_

I nod – Bucky must've told Steve, who then told the people at HQ. "He was about eleven hundred feet above Vegas. Long story, I'll explain when we get back. But I'll tell him about the B&E when he wakes up; I'm sure he'll be glad to hear that."

" _You have him, then?"_ Maria asks. _"Where are you?"_

"Yes, he's sleeping behind me, and I'm in the parking lot of the police station," I explain, the last part trailing off a bit as I take in their expressions – incredulous, weary, and more than a little shocked.

" _The POLICE STATION?!"_ they screech in perfect harmony.

"Woah," I raise my hands in surrender. "Don't do that. That was creepy. And yes, the police station. Bucky's inside returning the _borrowed_ car and I gave them a tip about a meth shop I visited this morning."

" _A what?"_

"It was Clint's fault," I sigh. "Why can't you blame him?"

" _He was drunk all night. You were perfectly sober,"_ my PA points out. _"And you still went and did this anyways."_

I glare at her. "I'll explain later, alright? Drop it for now. Maria, is there any way you can try and decrease the paperwork backlog without my actual signature?"

" _No,"_ she denies. _"It's all about the new app launch with the-"_

"Yeah, yeah," I wave her off. "I'll get to it when I can. For now, is there anything else?"

" _No, ma'am,"_ they chorus.

"Don't do that," I grumble as I use the touch screen that doubles as a radio console to cut the link between here and there.

The windshield is just a windshield now, and the lights change back and the windows lighten again just in time for me to see Bucky walking back towards the car.

I roll down a window. "Do they still hate me?"

"Yes," Bucky nods resolutely. "But, um, would you happen to know why I got groped by the receptionist?" He looks slightly abashed by this.

"Don't worry about it," I sigh. "She seems to be out to jump all of our bones. Get in."

"Yes, Your Highness," he quips, moving around to climb in the passenger seat. "I didn't know this car had a privacy screen."

"They all do," I reveal, "but only if you know how to activate it. By the way, do you know when Clint started drinking?"

"Around…eleven pm, midnight, maybe. Why?"

I frown as I pull around a gentle curve. "How much did he have to drink?"

"Well Tony started off with the tequila shots, and with his abnormally high alcohol tolerance level, he had to rack up about fifteen to twenty shots to get drunk," Bucky explains. "Clint, of course, was determined to match him shot for shot and he did."

"It's been nearly twelve hours," I sigh. "J, remind me to check him for alcohol poisoning once we get home. Both of them, actually."

" _Yes, ma'am,"_ my phone replies.

The rest of the drive is silent until I pull into the hotel parking lot again, parking the car and getting out to help Bucky with Clint.

"Wait a minute," I order before we start dragging him out. "I want to do a quick check."

"A check?" Bucky asks, even as he steps back to let me get closer to my unconscious boyfriend. "For what?"

"Alcohol poisoning," I reply simply as I press two fingers into a spot below his ear.

"You can check for that?" Bucky asks incredulously.

"Sadly, yes, I do know the symptoms, and no, I don't want to talk about it." I remove my hand from below his ear. "He doesn't seem to be running a low temp…a little dehydrated though." I rub a finger over his dry palms before moving it to hover over his lips and silently counting to sixty in my head. "About ten breaths per minute. Not bad, not stellar. We need to-"

"You lost me."

I turn to see Bucky staring at me with a dazed expression.

I give a sheepish grin. "Sorry, gimme a sec." I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, untangling the mass of numbers and data that had congregated in my head. "In short – and I'm no expert – I don't think bird boy doesn't have alcohol poisoning, but given that I don't know how much he drank nor how long it takes to filter out of his system, that could still be a possibility."

"So you're saying we need to get him home," Bucky surmises.

"Yeah," I nod. "But first, I need to go talk to Nat. You can stay here if you don't want to drag him up four floors."

"Yeah, like that's such a hard choice," he drawls dryly.

I toss him the keys as I head for the building. "Don't steal my car, snezhinka."

"Wouldn't dream of it, myshka," he calls after me.

Thanks to slow elevator speeds, it takes me another five minutes to reach the fourth floor of the hotel, but it takes me no time at all to find the specific room I was looking for. I let myself in with a spare keycard, walking into an empty room that smelled like Lysol with an undercurrent of vomit.

The knife comes out of left field and takes me by surprise; I barely managed to drop in time. "Tasha chill, it's me!"

" _I know!_ " she growls in Russian, coming out of the bathroom while peeling off two Latex gloves. _"I cannot believe you! You left me here with this imbecile…"_

"I know," I plead in English, not particularly wanting to play the language game today. "I get it, that was horrible, I know, and I'm sorry but we really need to get going."

She nods and sighs. "At least it's wearing off."

"That explains the vomit scent," I begin, but I'm cut off by hideous retching noises coming from the bathroom. I shuffle a little closer, pausing on the other side of the door. "Dad? How are you feeling?"

"Just _great_ , kiddo," he croaks. "Wonderful."

"Right, stupid question," I huff. "On a scale of 1 to 10, how bad is your hangover?"

"…6."

"Are you good to fly?" I ask. "Clint's still out of it, and I'm a bit worried."

"I should be good-" he's cut off by some more gagging. "-as long as someone brings the puke bucket."

"I'll grab it," I nod. "You wanna come out?"

There's no response and I get ready to ask again when the door opens to reveal my father in all his hungover glory (sans Elvis suit) and I take a half-step back. "Why, hello, Darth Vader."

"Luke, I am your father," he replies in a not-too-shabby Vader impression. "You found the bird?"

"We did," I confirm, leading him back into the living room and handing him one of Bucky's smaller sweatshirts. "Put that on, please."

"I texted the pilot," Natasha pipes up. "I told him we'd be wheels-up in forty-five minutes."

"Thanks – wait, how did you text the pilot?" I scrunch my face at her. "You don't have his number."

"But you do," she smirks, holding out my phone. "You should probably change your password now."

I scowl at her and snatch my phone back, stuffing it into my pocket. "Are we ready to go?"

He nods and Natasha just grabs a bag and is halfway out the door before I turn around.

I don't blame her, but I do trail behind and keep one eye on my dad for safety's sake.

.

One hour later, we've managed – somehow – to get everyone in the car, drag them to the airport, unload everything with minimal puking, and then drag everyone onto a plane again.

I finish with my seatbelt and lean against the plane window, watching the city grow smaller behind us as we taxi onto the runway. "Goodbye, Vegas," I sigh.

Dad's quiet "And good riddance," was almost lost to the plane's engines taking off.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello all. So sorry this last chapter was late, I was taking a vacation in the mountains of Tennessee and while the cabin had internet, I was not allowed to bring my laptop.**

 **Thanks to RussianAssassin, Anonymous (Guest), jodyowl11, csilla (Guest), Esha Napoleon, and TheGirlOfTooManyFandoms for reviewing the last chapter.**

 **Also, I tried something new at the bottom of the chapter, tell me what you think.**

* * *

If you ever want to take an extended flight from anywhere to anywhere else, I don't recommend doing it with one drunk man, one hungover man, and two assassins that are pissed off at you.

It isn't a fun experience. Trust me.

 _"TAYLOR!"_

I wake up with a start, jerking upright in the armchair where I had fallen asleep about a half hour ago. Bucky, who is presumably the one who just screamed, is standing in front of me practically vibrating with anger. Not, I notice quickly, I-am-the-Winter-Soldier-and-I-will-murder-you-all mad, just normal what-the-bleeping-hell mad. "Taylor," he growls again, "vash paren' prosto brosil na menya."

I blink the last edge of sleep from my eyes and rub a hand over my face. "Wha'?"

"Your boyfriend just threw up on me," he repeats in English, and, sure enough, I give him a closer look and realize he does have vomit covering his lap and dripping onto the floor.

"Sit down," I command, "You're dripping all over."

He sighs, rolls his eyes, and moves to sit on top of the (thankfully reinforced) dinette top a few feet away. I sit up and glance over at Clint, who had been sleeping on the couch next to Bucky. He's fallen back asleep, but there's a thin line of saliva dripping onto the floor.

"He declared his love for Barnes too, you know," Natasha comments coolly from where she was standing well away from the disaster zone. "Does that count as proposing?"

"No," I roll my eyes. "At this rate, you and Darcy'll owe me twenty bucks. Jarvis, what's our ETA?"

 _"Twenty minutes, ma'am,"_ the AI responds. _"The infirmary has been prepared for Mr. Stark and Mr. Barton."_

"I don't need the infirmary," Dad protests sleepily from an armchair, probably woken up by Bucky's screams.

"You could use the Advil," I remind him. "And I want to get you checked out."

"I don't-"

"Humor me," I sigh, turning around to come face to face with Bucky, whose brown eyes were boring not me intently.

" _This is all your fault,"_ he hisses in Russian. _"All your fault, all your fault. Seriously, this would have never happened if it weren't for you sending me on this trip..."_

I sigh - I had honestly expecting this, given the dark looks Bucky had been giving me since five this morning.

 _"...not to MENTION that you FORGOT that I can't even DRINK..."_

I'm distracted by a beep on my phone, the screen showing a text message from E. Jarvis - _ETA of five minutes, ma'am. Beginning landing procedures now._

 _Thank you,_ I reply quickly before tucking my phone away and turning half an ear to where Bucky was still ranting, but he's switched to French. _"AND NOW HE'S THROWN UP ON ME, DO YOU EVEN KNOW HOW MUCH MY DRY-CLEANING COSTS?!"_

I bite my lip to keep from pointing out that Stark Industries machines did his laundry, and it didn't really cost a thing at all. Instead I just sit back down in my armchair, keeping one eye on him and the other on Clint.

The landing was something straight out of textbook; smooth, fluid, and painless for everyone except Dad, who was still sporting a monster headache. Natasha's out of the door before I can blink, disappearing into...somewhere.

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to drown out Bucky, who was _still_ screaming his lungs out with no sign of stopping anytime soon. _There are some things you never get used to_ , I muse, _and that is definitely one of them._

Thankfully, there's none of the usual crowd waiting on the Tarmac, and I suspect that might have a lot to do with the PA waiting by the limo.

"How was the flight?" Phil asks conversationally as I storm up to him, Bucky trailing me and still ranting in a language I didn't even recognize.

"I don't want to talk about it," I growl, my hands curling into fists as Bucky continues to go off at me.

 _"-you OWE me-"_

I decide I've had enough. I plant my left heel and use it as a pivot to spin around, lashing out with my prosthetic and hitting a pressure point so hard that Bucky's eyes rolled up into his head and he dropped like a rock.

Phil doesn't even bat an eye, just raising one eyebrow at me. "So the flight went well, then?"

I sigh and relax as I survey the situation. "Okay, so I need you to take him," I wave a hand at Bucky's prone figure, "and Clint and Dad back to the Tower. Dad and Clint will need medical, have them check for alcohol poisoning. Bucky will need a new set of clothes...and now an ice pack. Oh, and I owe you a raise. A big raise. I'll tell Dad when he isn't hungover."

"I look forward to it," he says dryly, then motions to Bucky. "Help me get them in the car."

Twenty minutes later we've managed to get all three men back into the car, and I head back to the jet to make sure that we haven't left anything behind.

I don't get very far before something slams into my side - hard - and instinct sends me into a roll. Once my "attacker" and I stop tumbling, I realize two things: One, I'm looking up at Natasha; two, she looks _pissed._

"I've been expecting this," I sigh, blocking the first jab at my face.

"Oh?" Natasha asks innocently. "Have you?"

"Sure," I grunt, digging my heels into the asphalt and using the momentum to wriggle out from under her, popping up into one of the many martial arts stances she's taught me over the years. "I mean, after the day you had…"

"Right." She aims a punch at my head, with I easily block and counter. "And who's fault was that?"

"You going to scream at me like Bucky did?" I ask calmly, aiming a sharp karate chop at her neck, which she ducks with no effort at all.

"Nah," she denies casually, even as she's reaching up for a pinch point at the base of my skull that could be lethal if enough pressure was applied. "I don't want to end up unconscious."

"He was yelling at me in foreign languages," I defend. "I didn't even recognize that last one."

"Yupik," she supplies helpfully as she tries to kick my legs from underneath me, and I have a flashing thought of _wait, she said what?_ that allows her to successfully hit the back of my knees and put me on the ground.

My confusion must've shown in my expression as I stared up at her, because she shrugs and continues. "Rare language spoken in Siberia and parts of West Alaska. I don't know it, but I figure he'd have taken at least _one_ mission there in the fifty-plus years he was HYDRA's."

I nod and tense as Natasha moves again, but she just crouches down and studies me for a moment. "Why did you pick me?"

"For babysitting duty?" She nods. "Well, I couldn't do it."

"Why not?" she challenges. "I could've found Clint, and you know that. I've known him for longer than you have."

"Three years longer," I agree with a nod.

"Then why not let me go?"

"Frankly?"

"Of course," she scoffs, and even I have to admit that that was a stupid question.

"I trust you."

She glances over at me, a clear demand to explain.

"I trust you," I repeat, "to watch my father for a few hours and not have him kill himself."

"It's a big job," she admits. "And you couldn't leave Bucky because he'd already been there for a few hours."

"And he's the type that explodes outwards when he reaches a breaking point," I add. "I didn't want that happening. That would've been bad because we'd have had one Avenger wounded and another guilty as hell."

"He's always been a sensitive soul," she deadpans dryly, and the irony there makes be burst into laughter.

"But…really," I sigh once I've recomposed myself. "You really were the best choice, Nat."

"I see your logic," she sighs. "But you never answered why _you_ couldn't have stayed."

"At the risk of sounding childish," I sigh before looking at her. "I didn't _want_ to. Every single time my dad's gotten drunk over the past fifteen or so years, I've been right there to clean up his messes. And don't get me wrong, I don't usually mind and I get why it always has to be _me_ , but…"

"But you wanted out," Natasha hums, placing a hand on my knee. "You can ask for help, you know."

"The rest of the world is of the stiff opinion that my father is a…donkey, to put it politely," I remind her wryly.

"But the rest of the team doesn't," she counters. "Promise me that the next time he gets drunk you'll tell one of us."

I blink. "Nat- "

"Promise me," she repeats. "Promise me, Taylor."

I nervously lick my lips, then press them together tightly. "Okay. I…I promise."

She smiles at me and then picks herself up off the floor and helps me up. "Good. Now, one more question."

"Hm?"

"How are we getting home?"

"Um…" I gape at her a few times, probably resembling a goldfish . "Um."

"Nice job," she snickers, and I glare at her as I fish out my phone and open up Jarvis' interface, entering the commands for remote activation of my bike.

It only takes about three minutes for the driverless motorcycle to get from the Tower to LaGuardia, no doubt earning itself some odd looks about the way.

I grab the bike as it stops in front of me, swinging a leg over the seat. "Hop on."

She does so without complaint, only asking "No helmets?"

"Helmets? We don't need no stinkin' helmets," I drawl in a very bad impersonation of Mel Brooks. "Well, we do, but I've only got one, and I don't need a lecture on my self-sacrificing tendencies again."

"Fair enough," she agrees, and with that, I give the throttle a sharp twist and we speed off in the direction of home.

.

 _Saturday, October 10, 2020_

 _4:00pm, EST (1:00pm PST)_

 _To: Taylor Stark (taylor_stark at starkindustries dot net)_

 _From: Carolyn Goodman (Carolyn_Goodman at lasvegas dot gov)_

 _Dear Ms. Stark:_

 _It is of my deepest regret that I must inform you that after the events of October 9_ _th_ _and the ones earlier this morning, Misters Anthony Stark, Clinton Barton, and James Barnes are officially uninvited to return to Las Vegas, Nevada, given the destructive nature of their inebriated states._

 _While Las Vegas is a city of freedom and enjoyment, and is often held as a place where rules do not apply, I assure you that my city and it's residents do not enjoy destructive and loud partygoers like Mr. Stark and Barton._

 _I have attached a complete copy of the Las Vegas Code of Ordinances to this email – I suggest you have your companions review it for future notice so that they may avoid conflicts like the one that has come up in these last few days._

 _Please note that if any of the offender(s) is to try and re-enter the city, action will be taken and the offender(s) will be promptly detained, regardless of what identification or special privileges they may carry._

 _Regards,_

 _Carolyn Goodman_

 _Mayor of the city of Las Vegas_


End file.
